Song of Silence
by style xx
Summary: Postgame, PreAC. He's trapped himself, softly crying in a cage of ivory and ebony keys, and he’ll never have to hurt again. The piano is all he needs...The piano will never leave him. [RenoRufus]


**-Prologue-**

"Is there a problem, sir?"

Low, dark ceilings and clusters of calm, classy patrons were the most definitive factors of Matthew Ciluffo's evening club, May Moonshine, located in the new Wall Market of Neo-Midgar. One particularly well-to-do man had requested to speak with the manager, and so there Mr. Ciluffo was, somewhat disquieted that there might be a problem in his well-kept establishment.

"Not at all," the tall man replied airily, moustache bending with the curve of his smile. Ciluffo was instantly put at ease, and his face took on a more relaxed expression. He offered back a polite smile.

"I'm glad for that," Ciluffo spoke. "Might there be some what I can assist you, then?"

The tall man's eased smile grew whimsical, and he turned his gaze to stare distantly down past the second-floor balcony and at the first floor, where most of the customers were mingling In the corner of the room was a half-grand piano on which the pianist sat and was playing a gentle evening song.

He looked back at Ciluffo.

"I'm the Head of the Fine Arts Department at UNJ, Adam White." The man introduced himself quickly. "I've noticed you have a very advanced pianist playing here regularly."

Cilufo's eyes grew round and he leaned forward with distinct interest. The University of New Junon was world-famous for its superb Fine Arts Department, and, as far as he understood, meeting their director in his own club – asking about his own pianist – was an unfathomable honour.

"Yes, I guess we do," Ciluffo admitted, wondering if it was really appropriate for him to look so eager. Adam didn't seem to mind.

"I believe we're ready to offer him a full scholarship for piano," Adam stated with a smile. "And composition, as well. If it is true that these are all impromptu songs..." The tall man slowly quirked an eyebrow, suggesting something with his eyes.

"They're all impromptu," Ciluffo confirmed readily, glancing down at his pianist as the man was passionately engaged down on the first floor. "He really is something else."

"As I can see." Adam seemed content that the rumours about Ciluffo's pianist were true. "Would you mind if I borrowed him for a few moments?"

Ciluffo suddenly looked troubled.

"I certainly wouldn't mind..."

"...But?" Adam urged.

"...The man doesn't speak." Adam's brows lifted quickly and mild surprise found his face. "In fact, he doesn't even ask for pay. He won't accept pay. Technically, I never even hired him." Ciluffo's cheeks warmed at his embarrassing revelation. "All he takes is one gil from his tip box each day...and he leaves the rest."

"Honestly?" Adam seemed intrigued by this. "He plays that well and all he takes is one gil to a day?"

Ciluffo shrugged half-heartedly. "I've offered him more. Gods know my clients adore him." He shook his head. "He just won't talk to anyone."

Adam frowned. "I want to speak with him."

Ciluffo looked up at him wearily. "You're welcome to try."

"And you don't believe I'll succeed," Adam observed with a smirk. The shorter manager touched his chin thoughtfully.

"Honestly, I hope you don't. If you did, my business wouldn't do too well. It's his mystery that all my clients are so attracted to. What woman wouldn't want a man whom she only sees at night, silently playing piano with tears streaming down his cheeks?" He grinned. "It's a strangely attractive element, that anguish."

"Tears?" Adam's features lifted in confusion.

"What, haven't you noticed?" Ad that, Ciluffo's face took on a somber expression. "I supposed it's hard to see at first. He doesn't sob; his shoulders don't twitch. In fact, many of my clients thought his eyes were watering from staring too intensely at the keys." He laughed. "But those tears never go away. Sometimes I wonder just what it was that caused him to be like that."

Adam was frowning darkly, looking strangely contemplative as his eyes transfixed upon the pianist. If he looked hard enough, he could, indeed, see silent tears on that barely youthful face.

His expression didn't look sad, though. He only looked like he was concentrating.

One really would wonder what caused something like that.

-End Prologue-

/Here. This spot./

Long, deft fingers moved impossibly fast, pressuring the keys down and creating resounding notes that followed each other frantically. The keys remained clean as virgin snow, for the pianist would never go near this piano with dirty fingers. No; not even a speck of dirt or grime. The connection had to be utterly pure between his fingertips and the keys of this piano. _His_ piano.

Sweat formed on his forehead, brows tightened in concentration.

/Here. There. This way. That way G, G, F sharp. Trill. Connect. Turn the wrist. Beat on left./

He frowned harder, fervently tossing sweat-matted red strands of hair out of his eyes and leaning in so close that his nose almost touched the keys.

/Lift, soften. Cary the melody. Pedal. B Flat. _Dulce_./

The bead of sweat trickled down his temple, face hot from involvement. His expression softened as his song did, and he lifted himself back from the keyboard. His tears dripping onto the keys made his fingers slip just slightly, and he cursed himself.

/Forte. FORTE! Power, A, aggression, C sharp, magnitude, F, C sharp, A! Lift, soften. Lower, intensify./

Piano was his life. Rather, it was the only thing that had saved him from his miserable one. Misery had always seemed overrated to him, though. He preferred escape. He preferred paradise. He told himself never to be miserable, and piano helped him with that. Al he needed was _passion._

The tears always dripping down his face only meant the release of misery. Release of anguish. He was freeing himself.

He knew it would take long yet, and that his tears would not stop soon.

000

**Can you hear the calling**

Of the raving wind and water?

We just keep dreaming

Of the land across the river.

000

_"I'm really impressed," the young blonde spoke, looking up from his resting position against the older man's chest._

"Huh?" The redhead looked down questioningly, eyes half-dazed, as he softly kissed the wheat-blonde hair on the younger man's head. The blonde swatted his hand away with a gentle chuckle.

"At the staff party, remember? You never told me you play piano."

"I don't," the redhead frowned stubbornly, and his companion frowned back, rolling over on the bed, off the older man's chest.

"So, you just learned at the party by osmosis?"

"Nah; I knew how to before..."

Amused amethyst-blue eyes watched sea-green ones.

"And you forgot?"

The redhead pulled the blonde back onto his chest and nuzzled his face into the young man's neck determinedly.

"Just forgot a few minutes ago." He grinned with his eyes shut and kissed the bare skin of the young blonde's shoulder. "And now we can stay all cozy instead of you forcing me to play a song."

The blonde laughed quietly, weakly trying to shove his captor's lips away, but he gave in soon enough and sighed contentedly.

"You really hate playing that much?"

The redhead glanced up at him inquisitively.

"Nope, I just like this –" he kissed the younger's shoulder again, "- way, way more."

000

**We are always on the way**

To find the place we belong.

Wandering to nowhere,

We're paddling down the raging sea.

000

People sometimes asked where all his songs came from. Sometimes they would ask him how he could have created all these compositions right in his mind. Some would ask where he got his inspiration.

He never answered. He couldn't answer.

All he needed was passion. It didn't mater where he found it, as long as it kept coming to him. People had sometimes dropped him lines that his strange existence was unhealthy.

But he never listened.

/Loud! ...Soft. Loud! ...Soft. Pedal, lift. C sharp. Pedal, lift. Scale down, turn the right, flicker./

His wrists and eyes always hurt, but it was a sort of relaxing masochism. The more they hurt, the more he knew he'd been playing, the better his connection. The keys felt heavier under his fingers, and it made his heart swell with determination.

People wondered what, exactly, he was trying to prove by acting this way. What they couldn't understand was that it was never an act. It was the only thing left of him. He wasn't even able to think outside the boundaries of those ivory keys anymore. He'd trapped himself in a beautiful cage, and he wasn't trying to get out. He was happy there.

000

**Who can cross over**

Such raving wind and water?

On the rolling boat we sit

Shivering with coldness.

000

_"Reno! Let's watch cheesy romance flicks!" The blonde turned his head from his seat on the couch, grinning stupidly with a goofy blush on the height of his cheeks._

The redhead looked up from his coffee, staring across the room.

"What?" He asked, surprised.

"Mary, it doesn't matter that your mother was a buffalo! I love you!" The blonde recited dramatically, misquoting a line from the movie that was playing on the screen.

The redhead smirked lazily and stood up from the kitchen table, strolling over to the younger man on the couch.

"Are you saying things about my mom?" He asked, still smirking.

The blonde yawned. "And if I am?"

The redhead folded his arms across his chest, contemplating for a moment before he dropped himself heavily into the seat cushion beside the other man.

"So, what are you watching, anyway?" He asked, staring at the screen blankly.

"I don't know," the blonde answered, leaning backward into the couch. "It's very...dramatic." A distant smile touched on his gently curved lips.

"Dramatic," the older repeated, sliding one arm around the other's waist. The blonde nodded.

"It's interesting," he elaborated.

The redhead nodded and peeled his eyes away from the screen, sliding his free hand up an arm, pulling the blonde's tee sleeve up and exposing his shoulder. The older man's soft blue-green gaze stayed on his lover's face, smiling at the stubborn look he saw there. He leaned forward and let warm breath from his nose tickle the blonde's skin, and he smirked when the younger man shivered.

"Interesting," the redhead repeated again.

"And –" The blonde frowned and shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore his boyfriend's soft kisses. "...it's..."

"Hmm?" The older man hummed, smiling to himself. The shock of reddish-brown hair on his head tickled the other's arm and the blonde twitched. "What else?"

The younger tried to steady his breathing as the redhead's affectionate kisses traveled up to his neck.

"...It's..." His breath hitched as the older man reached the skin beneath his ear.

The redhead stopped, looking up with an amused smile.

"...Dammit, why'd you stop!" The blonde yelled before he realized what he was saying. He then stopped himself and his cheeks grew warm with a furious blush. He folded his arms and shrugged the redhead off angrily, turning away.

The redhead chuckled, following after the other man. He embraced the blonde from behind, breathing warmly in his ear and kissing it over and over.

The older man leaned his face forward over the shorter's shoulder, turning his head to steal a soft kiss from those down-turned lips. Despite the disdained look on the blonde-haired younger man's face, he sighed in quiet contentment and kissed back.

"We don't need to watch movies," the man with sea-green eyes spoke in a low voice. "We can have an 'interesting' time without them."

The blonde closed his eyes and leaned back against him.

000

**Come by an island,**

Come past a hillock.

It's just another place

We paddle on down the raging sea. 

000

Voices.

/No. Don't let them in. Don't let them break your concentration. Don't let them compromise your paradise./

"Excuse me...excuse me? Mister? Excuse me!"

He wouldn't hear them. It was just the distant howling of something that _didn't _want him to be happy. Why would he listen to reality? Reality never felt this nice.

The young woman sighed and turned to her friend. "It's like he doesn't even know we're here." She turned back to stare at Reno.

"Sir...why are you crying?"

/Build, build, BUILD! Cross hands! B flat! Lift pedal! Forte! FORTISSIMO/

The girl was startled by the sudden power of the song, and her friend looked at her dubiously.

"He's not going to talk to you," the friend said dryly. The girl twisted her mouth in disapproval and leaned forward, ignoring her friend.

"You look like you could use some company," she said, softly speaking into the redhead's ear and glancing at the small hoop earring that sat there, some sort of blue metal.

Reno's breath was coming in soft hisses, and his eyes glazed over intensely as his fingers worked harder than before. He didn't answer.

/Lift and soften. Spin. Frame. Connect the left and right./

"Oh, really." The girl huffed, annoyed. "This is very nice and all, but you should really stop this stupid attention game someday. Settle down with a girlfriend or something."

/B flat, B, C, C sharp, D, D sharp, E, F, F sharp, WHY ARE YOU LISTENING TO THE VOICES/

"..." Abruptly, he stopped playing and stared at the keys, eyelids continuously lifted and falling halfway. The girl smiled.

"Come one. Let me buy you a drink." She said gently, leaning in closer. He didn't move his gaze from the keyboard, eyes blinking drunkenly. The girl lifted an eyebrow as he opened his mouth, still staring at the keys.

"...Ah." He moaned quietly, a little throaty noise, and the girl's eyes grew round at his surprisingly handsome voice.

He frowned, top of his white dress shirt soaked and stained by his meaningless tears.

"...Ah...hh."

This time, the girl frowned.

"Hello? Are you going to say something?"

Her friend shook her head. "It's no use," she said. "He'll do that if you bug him enough, but he doesn't talk."

"Say something!" The girl hissed, ignoring her friend again. Reno's lips closed and parted.

"...Ah...aah...hh..."

His eyes hadn't moved once from the piano keys. Tears came again, eerily in that his expression didn't change once as they did.

"Fuck you!" The girl growled. "I don't get what anyone could see in you!"

She stalked off, and his fingers found the piano again.

/The voices are gone now...I can.../

/F sharp, F, E, D sharp, D...Turn left wrist.../

000

**What if one morning we'll see the sun?**

Brightly shining morning's to save me?

000

_"Reno," the blonde sighed into a warm, firm chest. "Do you like me?"_

"Stupid question," the redhead mumbled, tightening his embrace around the younger man.

"You're right." The blonde pulled away with a half-hearted smirk and looked up at the redhead, beautiful blue eyes fogged from thought. "Do you love me?"

"Is this a trick question?" The redhead shot back, almost too quickly. He noticed that the blonde looked slightly taken-aback, though, and his expression softened. He shrugged.

"You can't make me say it," the older man said, frowning lightly and taking on a stubborn expression.

"I guess it doesn't matter if you say it," the blonde said, then looked slightly suspicious. "But why won't you?"

The redhead smirked. "That, my darling Rufus, is a matter understood only by men."

The blonde scowled back. "I take it back. You have to say it now."

"What?" His smirk fell.

"Go on," the blonde batted his eyelashes jokingly. "Say you love me."

"No," the redhead whined. "I'm not going to."

The blonde's good mood seemed dampened, and he frowned. "You don't love me?" He folded his arms across his chest. "Fine."

The redhead shrugged. "Are you letting me off easy, or is this just you being a stubborn ass?"

The blonde grinned coyly. "Maybe both."

"Well, I'll say this much," the older man said, pulling the blonde back into his arms. "If you ever leave me, I'll get even more fucked up than you are now."

The blonde laughed into his lover's chest.

"Good enough." He looked up with an affectionate smile that made the redhead's heart dance. "You lo-ove me."

"Quiet, you," the redhead said with an annoyed smile, leaning down to cover the blonde's gently quirked lips with his own.

000

**They who do search**

Will find the land

Of memory.

000

He was only vaguely aware that any emotion, no matter how strong, will grow numb if one feels it long enough, because his emotion failed to lose its initial kick. He still could feel that caustic sensation as strongly as the first time.

It was the bitter joy he felt as his fingers waltzed across the keys gracefully, chasing one another in an endless, elaborate dance. It was an eternal loathing of life and an undying love for everything. It was burning ice on his soul; it meant everything and nothing.

"You play well."

Not surprisingly, Reno did not acknowledge he who had spoken. The tall blonde man quirked an eyebrow, looking falsely amused, and pulled up a chair beside the pianist, watching him play. The redhead continued on without notice.

"I see you here a lot," the blonde man said lightly, not seeming at al put off by the fact that Reno wasn't acknowledging him. "I was wondering something."

/One-two-three. One-two-three. Beat, Chord-Chord. C, E-G, E-G./

"Well," the man continued in a conversational tone, as if it was normal to speak with a mute, "You look an awful lot like the guy who destroyed Sector 7." He leaned in, but Reno did not react.

"Hm." The blonde man frowned. "Yes, I'm sure it's you. Those scars...and your eyes. I saw you as you were getting away."

/Liven up, carry the melody, go lightly. D, E, D, E, D, C. Scale up. Turn the right, now the left./

"I won't take up much more of your time," the man spoke on, face contorting with the semblances of cruel irony. "I just wanted you to know that you killed my wife. And my daughter."

/Pianissimo. Softly. Lift the pedal. Softer still./

"Just keep crying," the blonde man said pointedly, but strangely, without bitterness; he was simply matter-of-fact. He stood up. "It will never be enough, but if you beg for forgiveness, you might have a chance in hell."

The man left and Reno played on, the words resounding meaninglessly in his head. They only proved themselves as distracting sounds. He wouldn't accept a meaning.

That joyous, hateful emotion...there was something missing once...but not anymore. Never anymore. The dim light that made those strong shadows on his hands, the ghosts stalking his fingers as he played, always one step behind his music like the echo of his torment. The piano was all he needed.

The piano would never leave him.

000

**They find a dream,**

And search for a light.

000

_There were four who were inseparable. A tall man, a tallest man, a shortest woman, and a short man._

The tall man had long, silken, raven-black hair and harsh eyes the colour of black coffee. The tallest man's head was hairless but not entirely smooth, and his eyes, nobody had seen to date. The shortest woman had short, soft, well-kept blonde hair and an innate mildness in her cedar-wood eyes.

The short man was not standing there.

"Oh my god," the shortest woman said, concern evident in her normally placid eyes "I...I didn't realize...do you think that's why..."

The dark-haired man sighed silently, turning to stare out of the window of the small, empty cottage, thinking.

"ll he is doing is making it worse. It's already been three days since Rufus..." He looked away and cleared his throat. "He's not getting any better."

"He's still in there?" the hairless man asked gruffly. The dark-haired man shook his head despondently.

"Yes. There isn't anything we can do now. We've needed to go and assist on the Neo-Midgar project for a while, anyway."

"What...what do you mean?" The blonde woman asked, brows lifting in surprise. The dark-haired man gave her a pointed glance.

"It may seem cold..." he looked out the window again, "...but we can't afford to stay here any longer. We still have jobs to fulfill, even though..." he trailed off.

The bald man shook his head. "Even though our boss is dead," he finished the thought.

The blonde woman and dark-haired man stared at him warningly, and he shrugged lightly.

"Sorry," he grunted.

The tall, dark-haired man lifted two fingers to his forehead and frowned pensively, staring at the closer door for a moment before going over and opening it slowly. The blonde woman watched anxiously and the bald man was silent as the first man disappeared into the room.

"Reno?" the dark-haired man asked.

The redhead was slumped against the wall, staring straight at nothing as his fingers tapped idly against the wood floor. He looked confused; lost.

"Reno," the standing man repeated sternly. "Can you get yourself together?"

The slumped man continued to tap the floor with his fingers and lsowly craned his neck to stare blankly at the taller.

"Ahh...hh..." he croaked. "...Ahh..."

A pained look cam across the dark-haired man's face, but he quickly covered it with a business-like stoicism.

"I suppose not," he said in a low voice. "Well, I don't see any other choice. The woman next door will take care of you now." He frowned, not allowing himself to look away from the muddled sea-green eyes. "You're relieved of your duties as a Turk."

The words were immensely more difficult to speak than he had expected them to be. Before he could start to regret his decision, the dark-haired man closed the door behind the unaware ex-Turk and left him in peace.

The blonde and the bald man looked at him expectantly as he came out of the room.

"Well?" The woman asked.

The dark-haired man frowned and looked to the floor for a moment before gathering his few belongings.

"We leave for Midgar in 10 minutes," he said, voice sounding strangely scratchy. He cleared his throat, not meeting the gaze of either of his companions. "The four Turks..." he trailed off.

"Have become three," the bald man finished the thought with a grunt.

The other two offered up half-hearted glares.

000

**Can you hear the calling**

Of the raving wind and water?

We just keep paddling

Down the sea of this river.

000

"Excuse me...Mr. Ciluffo?" A young waitress dressed in an attractive but very classy dress smiled apologetically at Adam White, the head of the Fine Arts Department at UNG, a man who was only just another patron in her eyes.

"I'm a little busy," Ciluffo told her in a low voice, cocking an eyebrow warningly. She shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

"Yes, I'm sorry about bothering you," she said awkwardly," but I have some visitors who wish to speak with you, sir."

Ciluffo lifted both his brows now, eyes focused in sharp disbelieve.

"In case you didn't notice –"

"Very important visitors, sir," she said quietly, leaning forward suggestively. Adam smiled and stepped back, implying that he had no problem if Ciluffo spoke with someone else for a moment.

"I'm extremely sorry about this," Ciluffo apologized to Adam, who shook his head with that mysterious smile.

"It's no problem at all," he assured. "I'm a very patient man." Ciluffo smiled back at him politely before turning to the waitress.

"Let me see them, then," he requested. She nodded and left the room.

Ciluffo and Adam both watched with barefaced curiosity as a man with long, dark hair and a painfully serious expression came in, pushing someone in a wheelchair. Ciluffo stared at the person in the wheelchair, unabashed. Whoever it was...and the person eemed to be a 'he'...was covered by a delicately creased sheet, falling over his eyes and covering most of his lower body.

"Hello..." Ciluffo said slowly. "How...How can I help you two?"

The dark-haired man had a very direct way about him, like he could make anyone feel awkward and uncoordinated just by looking at them. He smiled, polite, but not friendly, and stared Ciluffo straight in the eyes.

"We wouldn't be interrupting, would we?" He asked evenly, and Ciluffo lowered his head.

"Not that I know of," he said.

"Good," the dark-haired man replied shortly. "We'd like to make a few inquiries."

Adam watched silently, amused. Ciluffo cleared his throat.

"What about?" he asked.

"Your pianist," the man returned quickly.

"Two ask about him in the same night," Ciluffo said quietly, amused. The dark-haired man seemed to pick up on his words, though.

"Oh?" The man looked at Adam, quirking a brow unsmilingly. "You did?"

Adam nodded back. "He's a genius, as you have no doubt noticed. I'm here to offer him a musical scholarship in New Junon, but according to the manager here..." He paused, tentative, as if he didn't believe it himself; "...the man doesn't speak."

Instead of the normal look of curiosity that Ciluffo expected, the dark-haired man's expression darkened considerably and he seemed to have lost himself in thought for a moment. The man in the wheelchair cleared his throat and the dark-haired man blinked back into focus.

"...I see," He said slowly, looking up carefully. "What do you know about him?"

Ciluffo frowned. "If you'd introduce yourselves before I..."

"I don't believe that's necessary," the dark-haired man started dangerously, but the man in the wheelchair lifted a hand to silence his companion.

"If you wouldn't mind doing a cripple kindness," the man spoke softly, a small smile forming on his handsome, feminine lips. Ciluffo watched, astounded.

"...I suppose." He cleared his throat, slightly up of that these 'very important visitors' wouldn't even introduce themselves. "But might I first as if you two know anything about him?"

A diminutive smirk grew on the dark-haired one's lips. "Oh, no...We don't know much."

"Hmm." The man nodded, staring absently down to the first floor at Reno, who was still playing as passionately as ever. "Everyone who comes here really takes a liking to that one," he said, a forlorn tone to his voice. "He's an enigma."

"He's never said anything about himself?" The Wutainese man asked quietly. Ciluffo looked up at him.

"He's never really said anything at all," he admitted. "I don't know who he is, or where he came from. I'm not even quite sure, but 'Rufus' might be his name."

The man in the wheelchair shifted attentively. "Why do you believe that?" He asked quietly. Ciluffo turned and stared at him questioningly.

"At first he wasn't completely mute. He was mumbling that name when I found him."

The wheelchair man shifted again, obviously unsettled, but his black-haired companion humming calmingly and placed a gently hand on his shoulder.

"Found him?" The dark-haired one asked, removing his hand from his friend's shoulder.

Ciluffo glanced at him sharply. "Yes." He said it in a clipped tone, as if not wanting to elaborate. "...I worry about him sometimes," he added quietly.

Adam lifted a brow and couldn't help himself from breaking into the conversation.

"Who _wouldn't_ worry about a mute who only plays piano and cries all the time, then takes only one gil a night?" He asked, dryly amused.

"..." Out of the corner of his eye, Ciluffo caught the wheelchair man mouthing something silently. He ignored it, sighing dejectedly.

"Knowing that man, he probably goes and donates the one gil to a homeless shelter, too," the manager said glumly. "I don't think he eats often. And I'm worried about his fingers."

"His fingers?" The Wutainese man repeated.

"When he leaves, every night at 3 AM," Ciluffo explained slowly, "his face is always flushed out and his thin fingers are trembling with reddened tips." He shook his head. "We've tried to get him to stop, but he plays right up until the clock strikes, every night of the week, no compromises."

The wheelchair main turned his head to stare across the room at the pianist.

"Always been a stubborn ass," the crippled man spoke to himself quietly. The manager stared at him in wonder.

"Come again?" Ciluffo asked.

"...It's nothing..." the man in the wheelchair replied softly, still staring down the stairs at the stage. "...Nothing at all..."

000

**No destination,**

But we are together

In this silent sadness.

000

_There was a woman in Junon who had been asked to take care of a man._

She didn't know much about the man, but his friends, who had to leave him for Midgar, had paid her plenty of gil and she was more than happy to take care of the disturbed redhead.

"Dear...?" She would gently open the door and peek in on the man, who would most often be lying on his stomach, ear to the floor, fingers tapping on the wood flooring as if it was a piano.

Sometimes he would be reading a newspaper. She would think about how he'd always stare at the same article.

She would wonder why he stared so intently at the article about Midgar's destruction. As far as she could tell, everyone else was right happy about Shinra's death.

One day, the man disappeared from her house. She reluctantly told his friends and they stopped paying her, but they did ask her to contact them if she ever saw him again. She agreed eagerly, but she never did see him again after that.

It didn't necessarily disappoint her. The man had always made her a little sad inside.

One year later, in Neo-Midgar, the man was sitting in a dark alley, mumbling to himself and tapping his fingers on the brick wall of some establishment. A large man was sent out to drive him away for loitering, but the redhead's strange mannerisms left the first man curious.

The redhead was taken into the club and given food and a cot to sleep on.

"Even just for one night, it's the least I can do," the club's manager had said to his favourite waiter. "Even Neo-Midgar does not need any more poverty than it has."

It was then that the waiter had pointed out that the red-haired man had found the old piano in the back room.

"...By the gods' golden chocobos..." the manager had whispered, awed. "Son, do you have a job?"

The redhead just played on, and the manager noticed wet tears growing on the mumbling man's anguished eyes of sea-green. His eyes burned as he played these songs, so unusual and so unique; so mysterious.

"Will you work here for me?" The manager tried a second time, but the man had only continued mumbling.

"...fus. Uhm...Ru...fus."

"Rufus?" The manager asked, curious, and the other man hadn't replied.

The redhead had never accepted the job offer, and he'd left the club that night without speaking a word.

But the next evening, wanting to play on that piano, like a wandering memory...he'd returned.

He always did. 

000

**We're paddling, paddling down,**

Down the raging sea,

Down the road to nowhere.

000

"It hurts a lot, you know." A soft hand reached out and was placed atop Reno's piano-poised ones. "It hurts to know this is my fault."

Reno ignored the voices. They were so persistent lately.

But the voices were also touching him now. They were touching his hands. They didn't want him to play. Didn't want him to be happy.

The nerve of them.

/Slow...beat. One...two...three... ...four./

Reno pulled his hand away from the other man's and started to play a slow song. The blonde man in the wheelchair grimaced slightly and pulled his hand back onto the seat's armrest with a downhearted sigh.

"Reno..." he started hesitantly, "...I've been looking for you for so long, but they said you just...disappeared...I'm not dead, Reno. I didn't _die_. I never left you."

/One, two. C, G, C. Three, four. Softly...Cantabile./

The blonde smiled humorlessly, forcing his own tears to stay back as Reno's ran down those weathered cheeks. He reached out and gently touched the red-haired ex-Turk's face, but eh man only frowned and kept playing.

"Look at us..." Rufus almost had to laugh in order not to cry. "Look at us now. Crippled. Insane." He chuckled sadly.

"You know what else?" He refused to let go of cheek, thought the man refused to acknowledge him. He gently ran his thumb over one of the thin crescent scars beneath the man's eyes and brushed red hairs away from his beautiful, sweat-streaked temple. "You ended up playing piano for me, after all."

No answer.

"Are you just ignoring everyone, or can you really not hear a thing?" Rufus wondered, voice faltering. Against his will, a small tear escaped one of his tightly closed eyelids and burned a path halfway down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly and opened his eyes, voice becoming a frail, shaky whisper. "...I miss you."

Rufus, ignoring the pain that shot up and down his body as he tried to move, leaned forward in the wheelchair and gently wrapped his weak arms around Reno's form. The red-haired man, however, didn't lift his hands from the keys.

"Come back," the blonde forced out, neck aching strongly. "Come back, Reno. If not for yourself, then for me."

/Trill, piano. Scale down, C, B, D, C. Diminuendo...Oh...who is.../

/Pedal, lift...No, no, no. Don't listen...shouldn't listen. He left you. The piano never will./

"...Ah...hh..." The redhead croaked out, the only sound he could make that didn't come from his fingers. "Ahh..."

Rufus hugged tighter.

"How long?" The blonde man demanded quietly. "How long have you been crying for no reason?" He lifted a hand to wipe away the older man's formless tears. Time's scars were far deeper than the two meek lines beneath those tormented eyes of sea-green.

/...left you. He left you. The piano won't./

"...Ahh..."

"I miss you," Rufus repeated, breathing gently. "Don't cry anymore."

The pianist's warm tears dripped down his face and fell, dotting the ivory keys of the piano as his playing slowed.

/But...when your tears fell upon these keys...did they disappear? Where did they go/

"Reno..." Rufus' frail arms still managed to tighten around the redhead's stiff frame. Reno's fingers slipped on his tears again, right as he stopped playing.

/Nowhere./

/That's right.../

/It might not leave you.../

"R...Ru..."

"No...Shh, it's alright. Quiet, now." Rufus smiled weakly, sadness in the crystal blue of his uninjured eye. "You've never had a knack for saying what's important, anyway."

/...but the piano...never loved you./

Perhaps he would listen.

The red-haired pianist's vision swirled as he turned in his seat, and for the first time in too long, his hands left the instrument to embrace someone far more important than those ivory keys had ever been.

000

**No destination**

But we are together.

On the road to nowhere,

In this silent sadness.

000

End

00000


End file.
